Voices
by Cadence
Summary: Reporter Vox Donovan has just found out the world's two greatest legends are the same story. See her manipulate, harass, and annoy her way to the truth.


she may have one face, but she's got many voices

note: If you don't like original characters, leave now. This part does set up practically everything important in the story, but it has only two non-original characters in it. And they aren't major. I apologize for the extreme exposition-y-ness of this section. It's dull. I know. 

Voice of Manipulation

_In which we meet our Heroine and she is Not Nice._

"Enjoying your new position?"

Vox Donovan's Cheshire grin glinted in the glass pane before him and onto his glasses in infinite multiplicity.

"You don't have security clearance."

Vox was on the far edge of the laboratory, gazing at the back of his head with casual mysticism.

"I heard Mr. Christianson has a particular flair for new assignations. Or was that flare? His temper does act up so."

She was professionally sharp, professionally caustic. Her eyes glinted amused hazel steel and her voice - her _voice _- was crystal wrapped in violence.

"You don't have security clearance; you broke and entered."

Honey gleaming hair was torqued into a elegant twist, secured by twin pens. Edged, distinct grey-white suit was a complementary contrast to his work place. She always blended in as she stood out.

That was part of why Landel hated her.

"But I supposed overtime is just one of your new benefits. Time. Equipment." Her grin widened a vicious bit, "Solitude."

"Breaking and entering is illegal."

Vox was beautiful, pale smooth skin ghosted his domain; a sharp face of delicately symmetrical features examined his work; a gracefully lithe figure stalked his back without movement; manicured figures manipulated his response with careless words. She was photogenic clarity, a vision.

She worked in radio.

It was a crime, he knew. She was broadcast incarnate, born for the soul purpose of being watched and adored. Vox was meant to enspell the world with her image and information. She settled for her voice.

The goddess of radio, the voice of the world, she spoke every important word ever said. But no one listened and no one knew her. No one knew her name. She was famous among friends.

If she had any.

"I understand you're work is difficult tonight. The project is very important, isn't it?"

Landel glared at her reflection and his, "Do you always check up on your stories like this?"

"Responsible reporting. Mustn't whisper the words, dear."

She spoke in aphorisms. Mouthing succinct charm with clear paradox. It was enchanting, begged repeating. He didn't understand a word of it.

"What exactly do you want to know?" he groaned, put upon in a way he was beyond describing.

Her heels clicked heartlessly against his tile. Her amusement was permanent, but the smile had faded, "The de-fragmentation and re-compilation process has had to undergo a thorough refit to adjust for the buffering problems, correct?"

He nodded, uneasy. Vox knew just enough of science to startle answers from scientists. She knew just enough politics to maneuver the politicians. She knew just enough of everything to be perfect. That was another reason why he hated her.

"I want to know what you've got so far."

Landel hoped for a moment, "The recovered computer core was discovered only six months ago and seems to have contained the records . . ."

Vox glared at him. Her spine was straight with verticality designed to injure and her eyes held a cold metallic gleam. She was unreal in her presence, exuding what could only be divine condemnation.

"I know that."

He shivered at the chill touch of her words and watched his keyboard in shame. She knew. He wouldn't be able to lead her astray.

"I discovered the damned thing."

He winced. Her finely filed nails seemed narrow and dangerous in his computer's flat glow, brooking no argument. She didn't know the word audacity; no one ever refused her and no one ever stood up to her; audacity implies opposition.

It was the lack of knowledge that made his hatred complete.

"A good deal of the information is irretrievable from the damage it withstood in the crash, but even more is beyond recovery due to incompatibility between our technology and what was lost," she tapped an expensive shoe in irritated impatience. He hurried on, "What we have been able to both decode and download seems to mostly be crew profiles. Memoirs were found in fragments for approximately five of the wake-shift."

"What format are the files?"

_ Oh yeah, I'm going to hell for this._ "Video. Some are just audio. Most have text applets as well."

A thoughtful expression flickered past her pristine features, "And the file I saw?"

The file she saw. The basis of what would have been the story of the century, if it had been read. The story she wasn't allowed to air; a great secret that burned to be remembered, invigorating her every cell with purpose.

Landel knew she never slept, not when she dreamed this story true in daylight hours. Lived the nightmare of a world's willful ignorance. Her energy was wound to this one purpose. Vox burned anyone impure of her focus.

"That's . . ." he stuttered at her intensity - _what_ was he aiding? "That's the file we completed first."

A satisfied smirk fell below incandescent eyes as she drawled, "Completed?"

He fidgeted at his glasses, dear God he was glad he wasn't facing her, "Relatively completed. It was the first we worked on, thanks to your discovery. But I'm afraid that no file can be completely re-compiled. What we do have was edited back together as seamlessly as possible." Suddenly, he sense her purpose there. "If you give us more time, we may be able to fill in the gap from our discoveries in other files. Everything is currently out of context . . ."

The deliberate, artful wisps of hair fluttered slightly and she shook her head, "No. I need the tapes now."

"What for?" he asked, almost defiant. If he weren't so afraid of her.

"Leverage," she said simply.

"I can't give them to you. I can give you the disks, but not the tapes."

"But, my dear, " she explained coldly, "not everyone is as privileged as you and I. I need a more universal format."

Landel snorted, "There is no universal format. Disks are as likely to work as tapes, and much less likely to get me in trouble."

"I need the tapes," Vox averred.

"You need?" he chuckled, nervous. "How very unique."

Vox watched him silently. He shied away from her reflection yet again, opting to anxiously peck at the decoding before him. She _needed_ the tapes. He didn't have to give them to her; his life would be easier if he did. Like any good reporter, she was willing to deal.

"My contact has a compatible machine. Tapes only." She flashed a future looking smile, "Meet the first step and the next shall fulfill."

She laid a hand on his shoulder, he was proud of himself for not jumping. Voice soft, she continued, "Were you ever told stories when you were a child?" He nodded, but her attention was elsewhere. "My father liked telling me old stories, from before. When I went to school, I didn't know any of the little bedtime tales my friends knew. There was only one we all shared, only one modern legend Daddy thought I needed."

Landel glanced up from his enrapturing fingers. Her ethereal monitor reflection closed her eyes, murmuring, "He was from July."

He choked back a gasp, "You actually believe in . . ."

Vox's eyes were half lidded as she finished with wry humor, "Vash the Stampede? No, I don't."

"But . . ."

"You see, it isn't belief when you have facts," she returned. "My contact is in December, Bernardelli," Landel made a hypnotized acknowledgment of those famous, profound names. She continued, "December has sanctions against the Autumnals, the main production center of the processing units capable of reading yonder disks. They're old fashioned sorts, mostly a stylistic concern for a city so large. They use typewriters and bicycle messengers, not quite up to par with ourselves. But they have some vid units."

He was dazzled as she knew he would be. Without hesitation, without worry about himself or Mr. Christianson, he handed the tapes over. It was only in the last moment, when she toed the threshold of her journey, that he remembered she small recompense he'd been granted in their dealing.

"Why?"

The reporter had paused, anticipating his question. She indulged him his answer, "I told you. It was the one story I shared with my friends. It is the one story we all share."

Hazel swept over her shoulder carelessly, "Don't you want to know the truth?"

***

December was a beautiful city, curving outward beneath the distant dome of blue. The buildings, the streets, the attitude - it was grey, controlled and powerful. Vox leaned contemplatively toward the thin pane of glass. Third story. Like all post-July structures, it crouched, binding itself to the earth. The foundations were dug deeply, basements were paramount. Vox shook her head.

He affected everything.

"Ahem," Karen cleared her throat.

Charitably, Vox returned her attention to the complacent agent before her. Karen was mildly offended by her indifference. Or possibly the grey silk pumps resting not inches from her inked paperwork. Mildly. That was what she liked about Decembrists. Like their city, so many seemed to be energy leashed; waiting for the opportunity to spring into action. They were winter, subdued. Potential.

Almost as good as information.

Vox looked pointedly at the girl across from her, "When can he speak with me?"

"Miss Donovan," she huffed, "I am not Chief Engle's secretary. I don't take his appointments and I don't type his schedules. All I know is that if you want to speak to him, you're going to need to -"

The Chief appeared from out of his office, arms crossed, "Vox. Get in here."

He wasn't her boss. But then again, Chief wasn't his real title either. Shrugging at the stunned Karen - or was it Sharon? Vox hadn't cared enough to learn - she swung her feet to the floor and stood. Wry obedience led her into the office; Engle held the door in gentlemanly fashion, offering his subordinates a ritual glare before following her.

The office trailed collective eyes after the duo, silent for a respectful moment. They quickly shook it off as Karen examined her unmussed papers. _That damned woman wasn't even decent enough have sand on her shoes_, she thought irritably.

Chief Engle's office was as any would expect, and as Vox knew since she'd been there before. Knick-knacks were sparse, pictures of family more so. It was well lit and warm, no comfort. There were no chairs. In a chest hidden in a corner, beneath papers and almost blocked by a metal filing cabinet, was his much coveted video equipment. Turning to stand before his desk as he sat, she could feel it tingling on her shoulder, on the edge of her wrist and fingertips. It was a hateful feeling - needing and not having.

They were familiar enough to pretend friendship. Their purposes diverged enough that Vox knew his yelling was never out of good humor. Her visits always worked out well for him, but never so well as for her, he knew.

Without preamble, the Chief answered her unspoken question, "I can't help you."

Her hazel eyes shifted slightly green with annoyance, "That's what everybody says. Be original."

He chuckled shortly, "What? You aren't going to ask how I know what you want?"

"How do you know what I want?" she parroted flatly, head tilted and sarcastic.

"Because I can smell your obsession on you a million iles away." He paused, almost sympathetic, "I can't give that to you."

"It's rather funny. Everyone thinks I'm obsessed. But always about different things." She peered into him, smiled, "I know what you think I want. It's not that you can't, you won't."

Engle bristled, "You're right. But why would I present you with incriminating evidence against myself?"

"In a backhanded way you insult me, presuming I'd think you would. Even more so by assuming I need your hand in your destruction."

His hand stiffened around nearest object on his desk - his coffee mug. The contents sloshed without his wincing. It had probably been cold for hours, he never needed the external stimulants. _Decembrists_, she repeated to herself, __pure potential.

"Threats aren't particularly nice."

Her eyes flickered brighter green, she could practically feel it, "You may have noticed that neither am I. I don't need you're files. I could read the exposé now, tell the world about Bernardelli's involvement in the undermining of the President through manipulation of the claimant payments you hand out to the various areas affected by Plant failures and typhoons. Of all sorts.

"His areas of support have a tendency to get a slight bit less than those against him. Your company, and you specifically, are seeking to create anarchy." He shook his head, sweaty denial. "Yes. You are," she enunciated fiercely. "The world is already disunited enough, we live in city-states, not a country. And you're trying to depose the one - _one!_ - universal factor of our world. He may not be a great leader, most people may not even know his name, but we all know we have a President and that he _is_ trying to make things better.

"Influencing conditions in areas that are strongly his so that it seems like he's a detrimental force, well, that isn't very patriotic."

He glared at her.

Vox sparkled as she continued sweetly, "I have enough evidence in the aid refused Inepril two years ago, the reduced compensation given to Dankin Town despite their hiked rates. And the little fact that you supposedly declared a certain legendary gunman a localized human disaster, but still dispatched two of your trouble shooters again just over a month ago to deal with him."

The coffee sloshed again as his head jerked toward her, a menacing slash in the air, "Then why are you here?"

Grey clad shoulders shrugged, "Because I lied."

"What?"

She grinned at the raw anger in his voice. It was cut with something else - disgust. Maybe a little disbelief. He didn't like being manipulated, but he liked it when she'd revealed her manipulations even less. He'd said once that it made him trust her even less because the confession might be a lie too.

It was a constant shock to her that they got along so well.

"There are two uniting factors in this scattered little world. I'll let you have the first if you give me the second."

"You're so kind," he grimaced, warily sardonic. "You never give a straight answer, do you? What do you want?"

"I want to invade your privacy." He raised an eyebrow, amused but accustomed to her unconscious catch phrases. "Field reports. Personnel files."

"Some of us aren't quite so quick on the up take as you, Voxy."

"I told you. Vash the Stampede."

Engle cursed, covering his eyes with his one non-mug entangled hand, "You're in control too often for your own good."

Vox didn't respond.

"It's immoral for you to ask for that. It's immoral for me to give it to you."

"So's grafting your customers. And blackmail for that matter."

He peeked out from behind his thick fingers, "I suppose it'll be good publicity."

"Aside from the threat of complete defamation of your reputation and possible imprisonment, I actually have an incentive for you."

His eyes narrowed, "Which you will somehow find a way to hold over my head in the future."

Vox looked innocent. Relatively anyway. She shrugged, "Who can read what the future will bring?"

Engle sighed, "Why not? You'll find a way to blackmail me anyway."

"An admirable attitude, sir."

"Don't get smarmy," he grunted. "I can accept the blackmail and the threats, but don't get smarmy. The principle of willingly supplying material for your own exploitation chafes enough as it is."

She squared her shoulders, clasping her hands behind her pressed jacket, "To the point, then. Bernardelli collects information on the family histories concerning health matters, as I understand it. I'm presenting you with the opportunity to learn first hand about the farthest ancestors of all prospective customers." His eyes widened, with either disbelief or greed. "For a price, of course."

"This is actually worth it," he mumbled. "How do you make me think this is actually worth it?"

Vox smirked, "Skill."

"So where's this mysterious information?"

"New Oregon, mostly."

The Chief stared at her, "But . . ."

"But I brought you a sample. You get to see it with me, gratis. I get to steal your vid equipment."

"Gratis," he finished with her, sour taste in his mouth.

"You understand me too well."

***

Despite whatever illusions Vox was under, she was not the only business Engle had to attend that day. Reports and others sundry skittered across his desk, fearful as the timid agents that invariably slipped them onto his desk or, in one particularly humorous incident, under his door. He worked feverishly, burning off his anger at Vox. Or possibly his anticipation of her tapes.

A large vid unit was set up atop a cart as the compact set within Engle's chest was industriously packed for transport. Apparently, it would be no inconvenience to the Chief. A pity.

During these various proceedings, Vox alternated between hovering behind the anxious agent setting up the vid and sitting, elegant and unobtrusive, to observe the office at large. Her grey shadows and hazel undertones did little to improve the efficiency of the agents. At intervals, Engle would appear to bark belligerently about some cable for the vid or a semi colon in a report. Between the two of them, it was surprising any work was accomplished at all.

By the time the suns dipped between twin, fading buildings, the office had been hastily cleared for some time. In lieu of actual food, Vox had ordered in, and she was perched daintily upon Karen's desk, feet resting on the girl's chair. Engle sat on a partially organized, haphazard desk recognizable as belonging to one Miss Stryfe. He seemed to enjoy his position. Boxes of food were scattered about in something that might be misconstrued as casualness and the vid screen flickered unhappy static, awaiting its purpose.

"So," he slurped at a chow mein noodle, "tell me the truth, how did you get a hold of this information? You owe me at least that much after the unnecessary hell you put me through earlier."

"What? A friend can't say hello?" she dead panned.

Engle laughed harshly, "You don't have friends, Voxy. You have people you almost feel bad about manipulating."

She tilted her head in agreement. Distinct glows of hazel examined her chopsticks a moment before responding.

"About six months ago I was investigating a scandal involving defunct spaceships being sold off to unknowing, usually elderly -"

"How touching," interrupted Engle.

Vox glared and deftly pinched a clump of rice as she continued, "Usually elderly couples that couldn't recognize the degrading quality of the Plant-induced greenery. On a particular site, I found the entrance to the ship itself. Turned out to be less defunct than I thought."

"And from your magical and marvelous computing skills with lost technology, you were able to access these files. Incredible!" he sniped.

She flung a small, squishy souvenir from Karen's desk at him, "Actually, while dodging the ship's _very _persistent security system I started randomly pulling out bits of circuitry -"

"Brilliant idea."

"-in an attempt to remove the hardware that locked the voice recognition algorithms. It, ah, worked," she blushed briefly, "but not without shorting all the doors and sealing them shut, disabling whatever life support was left, and nearly being electrocuted.

"I had to be rescued."

"But in the mean time, you decided to investigate what was left of the system you mutilated. As long as your oxygen lasted anyway," he whistled. "You know, Donovan, you may be sickeningly talented, but you really are an idiot."

They sat silently for a moment, ruminating on the veracity of his statement. Vox rotated the chair beneath her feet, flexing her toes within their stuffy confines. She tilted a glance at Engle's profile. He was amused, but still quite obviously anxious for the promised tape. Beyond him, seemingly farther away now in the hollow extremities of the empty offices, was the exhorted equipment and files.

Taking a bite, around a mouthful of rice, she prodded, "So tell me about these trouble-shooters of yours."

"Could you at least fulfill your end of our bargain before wheedling me again?" he snapped.

Vox didn't bother to hide her amusement. She never did.

She took another bite and twirled her chopsticks twice between adroit fingers before stabbing them neatly into a nearby container. Fleet feet found the floor and she clicked over to the cart to retrieve the remote control. Slipping back to her substitute seat, she pointed the controller behind her back and pressed play.

Color flared and then receded on the screen. Vox's hand blindly sought out the drink hidden behind her chopstick adorned food as the image resolved itself.

A simple black background framed the life statistics and sharp still of a powerful looking mustached man.

The tape narration began, "Captain Joseph Blair. Age: 38. Marital Status-"

Vox tapped the mute button. At Engle's startled protested, she gestured presumptively at the unit, "Since both you and I are literate, perhaps we should skip to his personal statement?"

He rolled his eyes, a sight absent from Vox's directed attention. She thought she could feel the emotion of the action anyway. "I take it you've viewed these before?"

Her eyebrows tipped together slightly - all her reactions seemed to be slight - as she briefly thought of lying. Their tension eased, invisible to the Chief, who had long ago learned better than watching her when possible. He could never read anything she didn't want him to see; what she wanted him to see was never particularly heartening.

"Part of it. These records are actually what I accessed when I found the file system on the ship. I saw enough to know better than to watch the entire thing when I don't need sleep."

"You sleep?"

The tape continued to cue forward, muted, as Vox ignored his comment. Finally, the dull black tableau shifted to a motion excerpt of the Captain speaking. His demeanor was forcibly cheerful, appearance matched perfectly the still of earlier. It was his mission statement.

"- which have made our home largely unlivable. Our ever growing population has pressed this project into action ahead of schedule, prohibiting the possibility of finding more people to crew the wake-shift," he sighed, eyes directed to some unknown despair off screen, before reclaiming the camera. His optimism snapped back into place audibly, "But it's for the best. We have already selected the top candidates for each position. We may not have the opportunity to commission a proper back up crew, but we won't need them. We have the best and we have the dream.

"We will found paradise for these sleeping children of God."

Vox paused the tape, examining the passion in Captain Blair's thinly lined face. She closed her eyes, replaying the echo of his voice. Everything was in the voice - always. A faint quaver of unsurety, the undertone of resentment, a thread of desperation lay under his hope, undermining it. The timber was strong, husky and competent. But there was so much else . . .

Her eyes snapped open, smoky hazel rolling quizzically over the frozen image, "I wonder if they rest easily, those who brought us to the shore of paradise's sandy ocean."

"No, you don't."

Vox - the reporter, the voice - took the image into herself one last time, before whispering in horrible rapture, "No, I _ don't_."

Her fingernail skipped across the controller; the tape played once more. Blair's face blurred and reinitiatialized itself. The new being was older, paler, and ages harder. But he held himself with something new. Pride? No.

Faith.

"Since," he chuckled softly, "we have no 'Star Command' as Rem would put it, it seems appropriate that I would make this report to you, who recorded the beginning of our journey. We may now be near its end."

He turned away from the camera slightly as something off screen disrupted his recording. A pounding of feet raced past and the Captain's eyes traced their smooth path before barking, "Boys! How many times have I told you to walk? The Rec Room isn't going anywhere."

A high, childish, yet poised voice replied, "One hundred six, counting this time."

There was a distinctive show of finger wagging at the unseen child, "Don't get smart with me."

The voice - or was it a pair of voices? - chirped obedience. And ran off.

Captain Blair shook his head in bemused as he smiled into the camera once more, "Damn kids never listen."

The Chief squawked some highly undignified noise. Vox paused once more, before he gave himself an aneurysm.

"There," he breathed, "there were children on that ship?"

Vox's eyes glinted, "Yes. And just look at how pale the Captain was, look at the slight muscle degeneration."

"What if children of those 'boys' live today? What if the apparent ill effects on Blair were universal to even the colonists in stasis," he exhaled heavily. "This could revolutionize health care."

"And insurance," added the reporter smartly.

Engle eyed her with a mixture of awe and disgust, "And here I was beginning to think you were just showing this too me to supply yourself with further blackmail material."

Vox was offended, "I am."

"Yes, but," he punctuated the exception with an open hand flung toward the vid, "you're also giving me definite proof that it's worth it."

"And whetting your appetite for more." She waited a beat, "Speaking of . . ."

The Chief took the hint, "My trouble-shooters. They're names are Meryl Styrfe and Milly Thompson. Although," he eyed her seriously, "those lovely reports your hands are twitching for will probably tell you more than I can."

"I like to have all possible perspectives," she replied smoothly.

"Right." He sighed, "Right. Your thoroughness is legendary. No weaseling out, then.

"Meryl Stryfe is quite possibly the best agent we have. She's smart, she's efficient, she's a workaholic. She's got enough of a temper to intimidate most deadbeats and outlaws." Engle paused a moment, idly mixing up the paper's on Miss Stryfe's desk. "Spunky's a fairly good descriptor. More telling is that she's kill you if you use it.

"Meryl's frighteningly competent and dedicated. Like someone else I could name," he added under her breath. "Far too frightening to be allowed in the office."

Vox filed this information silently, ignoring Engle's cheap dig at her. She'd make him pay later. She always did. Tracing a chopstick with a fingernail, she asked, "And Thompson?"

"The same."

Vox cocked an eyebrow.

"Except different," amended the Chief. "Too unnerving to see every day at work, but because she's so utterly _incompetent_."

"So you were hoping the Humanoid Typhoon would kill her?"

"If I thought you had a sense of humor, I'd laugh. I think I'll be offended instead."

"If that were unusual, I'd enjoy it."

Engle raked an irritated hand through his hair, "Milly's tough to describe. She's at least as smart as Meryl, but incredibly dense at the same time. If she ever showed up on time I might call her competent. She's got the compassion that balances Meryl efficiency. One without the other would probably be useless. Meryl'd scare everyone away and Milly would get walked over.

"They're good kids, both of them."

"And you'd rather they chase the world's most dangerous man than corrupt them with your business," she noted.

"I may be an insurance man, but I have _some_ scruples." He examined the reporter - sidelong, "So . . . good enough?" She nodded, indifference implying her infinite "for now." Engle shifted. Gestured to the frozen image on the vid, "Shall we continue?"

Vox stared at the unit in a distant silence. Her eyes - flinty now - flickered carelessly across the dead captain's pixelized face. Quietly, straight and smooth - natural without option of any other state of being - she stood. Like that, divine and foreordained, she turned off the screen. Took the tape.

"No."

"Vox!" he protested.

"No." The repetition was painful, a hiss of hard air in his ear. "This is my game, and you already know enough. More than."

Annoyed, he conceded her that. Annoyed that he conceded, he threatened, "Damnit, if you don't get me that information . . ."

"I will. I have my contacts and you know I don't lie."

"Now that's a funny statement."

Paper-sharp material straightened over stiff shoulders, "Funny is you presuming I'd ever give away more than necessary. Although," she smirked, "there is one woman whose logs I almost want to see your reaction to."

Uninterested, tired of her manipulations - her - he asked, "Can I have a name?"

Vox's voice was light, stingingly free of inflection, "You'd sully its meaning with your unsaved lips."

And she was gone, in his office and taking what he'd packed. The word was taking. For moments she could, she did - she always did - convince him he was giving. But he wasn't. Her quicksilver mood swing proved that.

Of course, it wasn't a mood swing. It was strategy.

To her hidden, office presence, he dead panned, "when you get what you want, you're pretty decent company, Voxy."

"I only love you for your equipment, Engle." She wasn't going to allow him sarcasm. Friendly banter again. _Stupid schizophrenic reporter._ "And I never have what I want, just what I can have."

_ Stupid shifty reporter._

notes: I don't think I like how undescriptive I was suddenly in the part with Engle. Why yes he, his personality, as well as Joey's last name are all completely made up. I originally intended for Vox to deal with Karen, but it just didn't make enough sense. The video clip was also originally supposed to be Rem, but I couldn't come up with a good reason for Vox to use anything but the Captain's and to reveal so much of her motivation to Engle. I also made up the bit about the Autumnals, which in my wacky universe are a small collection of cities (fittingly named after the autumn months) which have formed political and economic alliances. I think I may have made Vox a little too nice in the Engle part. This is all supposed to be a look at the Trigun world, and its legends, through the eyes of an outsider, someone fairly everyday. I wanted to look more at the world and how it functions, going as far as to give Bernadelli further motivations and show outsider perspectives on our favorite characters. And that's forgetting the major plot . . . . which you'll have to wait to find out. 'Cause I still have to write it. Despite the set-up-ness of this chapter, I hope it is interesting.

Trigun is copyright (c) Yasuhiro Nightow and Young King Ours. 


End file.
